


Mi sol, Mi cielito.

by FreeShavocadoo



Category: Mayans M.C. (TV)
Genre: Family Dynamics, Fucked up backgrounds, M/M, abstract fluff, moderate angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-08
Updated: 2018-12-08
Packaged: 2019-09-14 07:47:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,567
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16909014
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FreeShavocadoo/pseuds/FreeShavocadoo
Summary: Sometimes, when Coco is listing his own imperfections, Angel can't help but feel like he's standing in front of a mirror.





	Mi sol, Mi cielito.

It isn’t the first time Angel’s wanted to rip Coco’s head right off his shoulders.

But this time, it’s different. The usual blown out pupils aren’t tracking every single movement of Angel’s, but are trained on the wall in front of him. The room is hardly anything to make the mood any less depressing than it is, dull beige coloured walls and next to no sentimentality. Maybe it’s his mothers voice in his head, but Angel can’t help his unease at the lack of a sense of _home_ in the place. Which is ironic considering his home always looked like it was a nice family with an only child, an accomplished and decorated only child. But he at least could see the family pictures, could look around his own childhood room at the posters and photo frames and dents in the wall from roughhousing with Ez. But here in Coco’s house it’s like there’s ghosts in every corner, like the only reason dust isn’t settling is because even the signs of passing time don’t want to rest here. He’s aware that like himself, Coco left his home when he was young. Moved out without a second thought since he never saw it as a home, spent time incarcerated and time in the military. Routine suited him.

His mother showing up on his door shouting in rapid Spanish wasn’t routine.

“Coco.” He nudges Coco’s shoulder, mindful that sudden movement would snap him out of his reverie too quickly but also too impatient to give much of a fuck. “You okay?”

He knows it’s a stupid question. Anything involving Celia was never ‘okay’ to Coco. They brought out the worst in each other. Though Angel will always resent the woman for the way she spoke about Coco, as if he was good for nothing and she wasn’t. The main issue lay in the fact Celia seemed to voice every single paranoid thought in Coco’s head, every single nagging insecurity and anxiety he had. Angel knew he had plenty, Coco was talkative when he was slamming tequila, even if it took a particularly attentive person to understand him at such a ridiculous speed when he was slurring. His habit of interjecting random Spanish words into otherwise English sentences didn’t help.

“Fuck off, Angel,” Coco lights another cigarette, long finger curled around it as he inhales deeply and seems to melt further into the couch with furrowed brows, “starin’ at me like I’m some fuckin’ crying schoolgirl.”

“I don’t even know how the fuck I’d stare at a cryin’ schoolgirl, Coco.” Angel tries not to sound as exasperated as he feels but it’s hard. Years of dealing with a brother as sensitive as Ez had meant his patience always wore thin when it came to crying and comforting. Even if Coco is the exception for reasons Angel could never explain.

“Well I don’t need pity.” Coco’s voice is low, slower than usual, scratchy as if he’s holding in too much for his voice to come out unaffected. It’s probably from all of the smoking, too.

“Ain’t given you none.” Angel huffs, running his fingers along his facial hair and scowling a little. Sometimes it was hard to remember he wasn’t an adolescent anymore so he shouldn’t act like one. “You need to eat something.”

“Yeah?” Coco stares at him, piercing and inquiring eyes that are impossible to look away from. “You gonna make me something?”

“You got anything in?” Angel bites back, towering over Coco, staring down at the man who seems an unusual level of boyish today, shirt hanging on him in a way that makes Angel think he needs to eat more. Then he remembers he didn’t suddenly turn into Coco’s mother and that Coco would always be a skinny motherfucker no matter what he ate.

“Nah.” Coco seems disinterested, his eyes glazed over as he bites his bottom lip. Maybe Angel tracks the movement too closely, or maybe he’s just being attentive. He’s not sure which is more unsettling.

His look is vacant, so much so that Angel has to resist the urge to snap his fingers in front of Coco’s face. It’s not hard to wonder why that is. Celia had come knocking on the door demanding money, saying he owed her for looking after Leticia. Of course Coco instantly goes on the offensive about the entire thing, having already had the argument about Leticia being under Celia’s care when she was meant to be put up for adoption a hundred times already. Angel has to give it to Coco, that was a level of consideration most of the men in the MC didn’t have for their kids. Most stuck around for a while before disappearing again, having more of a distant family relative relationship with their children than a fatherly one. For Coco to have thought about Leticia’s circumstances with him having been incarcerated and her mother being a junkie is something Angel wouldn’t have deemed him capable of.

“You didn’t listen to her years ago, so don’t start now.” Is the most he can offer in the way of advice. He’d loved his mother, granted. She was a good woman and a great mother, but he just didn’t have the same closeness that Ez did with his parents. His father always saw as many faults in Angel as he saw perfections in Ez and as hard as Angel tried he could never hate Ez for it. Maybe some of his resentment did spill out towards his father, no matter how many times he heard his mothers voice in his head, telling him how his father had cried the day he was born. The man she was speaking about and knew is a complete stranger to Angel, replaced by a man whose time is only invested in his youngest son’s life.

“Who said anything about listening to her?” Coco stares at Angel, like he’s the only person who actually sees him. “Can still agree though.”

“We should start calling you calaca,” Angel teases, tugging at the shirt that is probably two sizes too big on Coco’s back, pinching his arm, “you shouldn’t agree with shit.”

Coco huffs but stands slowly, staring up at Angel with a look that seems to be so charged that Angel couldn’t look away even if he wanted to. With what, he isn’t really sure, but he doesn’t care because nobody looks at him like this.

“Cariño,” his voice is scratchy from the smoke and the way he’s staring under his eyelashes at Angel reminds him somewhat of the women who hang around the MC, but instead of him thinking it looks ridiculous and wishing he’d stop wasting his time he finds it oddly attractive, “you ain’t got no room to be giving advice.”

It might be the pet name or the heavy-lidded stare, but Angel can feel the coil wrapping around his stomach the way it usually only does when he’s stealing glances at Coco when he knows he has no right to. Usually because Coco is staring right back with wide, deep brown eyes that seem to miss nothing. A few frantic drunken kisses mean nothing when it’s anyone else, but clearly Angel wasn’t the only one who was banking on more. He never had to look twice to know Coco was beside him and even if he didn’t know what the hell he was feeling, it was as close to love as it got for him. He was never the romantic type, he didn’t have the same openness Ez did, he didn’t have the same eagerness to rush into anything with his heart on his sleeve. He could be empathetic but that was as far as it got, until he met a scrawny little Coco fresh out of the military who was wild-eyed and philosophised over weed, who made his heart ache.

 “Yeah? Well you ain’t got any room to be denying my advice either, _cari_ _ñ_ _o_.” Coco’s eyes seem to flicker at Angels words, narrowing at the playful imitation of his own uttering of the pet name moments earlier.

Coco’s lips are softer than they have any right to be and the way his fingers curl into Angel’s shirt makes him feel completely vulnerable to everything, the small breathy gasp from Coco’s mouth only making Angel even dizzier. Angel loves the fact he can now fully lace his fingers into Coco’s hair, the curls winding around his fingers as he grips them, pulling Coco’s head back to stare at him.

“You can’t kiss your way out of problems, Coco.” He nudges Coco’s nose with his own, resting his forehead against Coco’s for the briefest of moments with his hand still on the back of Coco’s head. He seems to relish the contact, sighing audibly and relaxing into Angel’s grip.

“Nah. But I can try.” He laughs softly, something he rarely does in front of anyone else. Perhaps it’s stupid and bizarre for Angel to feel a sense of pride in himself for bringing Coco out of his shell like this, to be the one who gets to hear a gentle breeze of laughter rather than the barking laugh Coco is usually associated with. Maybe it’s the pride he gets from being the only one to truly know him. But then again, he wouldn’t want anyone else to have the privilege of these moments.

“Damn right you can.”

**Author's Note:**

> I love these two and their dynamic will haunt me to my grave.  
> Any feedback is appreciated! I love people's comments and constructive criticism :) let me know what you think!


End file.
